his last evidence of the man's
caution convinced Masten. Obeying a sudden impulse, he threw the rifle to
his shoulder. The muzzle wavered, describing wide circles, and before he
could steady it enough to be reasonably certain of hitting the target,
Catherson had vanished behind a low hill.

Masten wiped the cold moisture from his forehead. For an instant he stood
irresolute, trembling. And then, panic-stricken over a picture that his
imagination drew for him, he dropped the rifle and ran, crouching, to the
corral. With frenzied haste, urged by the horrible conviction that had
seized him, he threw saddle and bridle on his pony, and clambered,
mumbling incoherently, into the saddle. Twice the reins escaped his wild
clutches, but finally he caught them and sat erect looking fearfully for
Catherson.

The nester was not visible to him. Gulping hard, Masten sent the pony
cautiously forward. He skirted the corral fence, keeping the shack
between him and the point at which he divined Catherson was then riding,
and loped the pony into some sparse timber near the river.

His panic had grown. He had yielded to it, and it had mastered him. His
lips were twitching; he cringed and shivered as, getting deeper into the
timber, he drove the spurs into the pony's flanks and raced it away from
the shack.

He rode for perhaps a mile at break-neck speed. And then, unable to fight
off the fascination that gripped him, doubting, almost ridiculing himself
for yielding to the wild impulse to get away from Catherson, for now that
he was away his action seemed senseless, he halted the pony and turned in
the saddle, peering back through the trees. He had followed a narrow
trail, and its arching green stretched behind him, peaceful, inviting,
silent. So calm did it all seem to him now, so distant from that dread
danger he had anticipated, that he smiled and sat debating an impulse to
return and face Catherson. The man's intentions could not be what he had
suspected them to be; clearly, his conscience had played him a trick.

But he did not wheel his pony. For as he sat there in the silence he
heard the rapid drumming of hoofs on the path. Distant they were, but
unmistakable. For a moment Masten listened to them, the cold damp
breaking out on his forehead again. Then he cursed, drove the spurs deep
into the pony and leaning forward, rode frantically away.

Coming out of the timber to a sand plain that stretched in seeming
endlessness toward a